


Words Unspoken

by clusband



Category: Hiveswap
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Choose Your Own Adventure, Fantrolls, Other, dating sim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:42:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21868444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clusband/pseuds/clusband
Summary: At the edge of the clown capital of Alternia, something guides you inexorably forward. Could it be the tantalizing smell of both greasy food and the slight hint of blood? Is it the stock carnival music that seems to permeate your very skull?Perhaps it's a simpler answer than that. When friendship calls, you always answer.
Relationships: Mimika Mutumn/MSPA Reader
Comments: 13
Kudos: 27





	Words Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> 100% guide complete with content warnings: https://imgur.com/a/h68fch7
> 
> I went through this probably 20 times, but if I missed a broken link or typo, please let me know!!
> 
> Now with fanart [here!](https://clusband.tumblr.com/post/190940338282/hi-i-really-like-your-writing-and-i-loved-the)
> 
> Fanart [ here](https://clusband.tumblr.com/post/612957741207764992/disegnidipizzo-clusband-come-get-yer-juice) too!

Another night, another enormous potential for mischief. You push the temptation down where you can.

Clown town used to look like unorganized chaos to you, but the more time you spend on Alternia, the more predictable trolls' behaviors become. _Hello, nice to meet you, I am being friendly. No, not like that. Yes, I would prefer to keep this interaction both nonviolent and shallow, thank you._

But it's only a matter of time before taking in the sights starts to grate on your nerves somewhat. A clown juggles, a jester stirs on a bench. 

You are… 

...incredibly lonely.   


It's true. You've made all of the friends you had the drive to make. There's a sort of peaceful feeling that surrounds you. A feeling like you're doing something you weren't ever intended to, instructed by a player with no part in the game. 

It's a feeling like… 

...curiosity. 

...fear. 

The feeling takes hold, digging its claws deep into you, and it doesn't let go. You made a wrong turn somewhere. 

You made the wrong choice. 

From crosswalks and alleyways, jesters jeer and glare at you. You are very out of your element here. This was a very bad idea. 

But you don't have time to figure out what's going on. Restless energy fills you fit to bursting. You run. Figures rush past you. Laughter fades in and out of your ears. Suddenly, this place is twisted and non-euclidean. Alley-ways stretch before you, miles long though you're inches from the wall. Buildings stretch above you just to leer condescendingly down. 

But you barely notice. Your breath leaves you as your vision fades. You trip over who knows what, but you're gone before you hit the ground. 

All there is is laughter around you. 

**BAD END**

Restart?

Yes, curiosity is exactly the right word. Look at you, feeling and identifying your emotions! Next: pride. Excitement. Joy. 

Fuck yeah, you're on a roll. 

Can we get on with this? 

You finally reach the main square in clown town. It looks like a few of the stalls never opened tonight. They're comically small in the absence of their vendors; images of clown cars packed to the brim flood your mind, and you suppress a laugh as you imagine hundreds of clowns pouring out of these closed stalls. 

A fire juggler catches your eye. He's bright and flashy, but his mean face leaves you wanting. You, a known critic of the performing arts and regular of clown town besides, deem him lacking. There's a troll contorting on the corner, and your spine gives a sympathetic twinge. There aren't many soft and cozy things on Alternia; the position they're currently twisted in reminds you of nights spent desperately trying to get comfortable enough to sleep. 

You're about to give up on watching these performers when you feel a sharp pull around your wrist. 

You look wildly around. There's another pull on your wrist, tugging you left, before the pressure dissipates entirely. 

You’ve never felt the pull of friendship quite so literally. 

Glance left. 

Glance right. 

There's a fire that lights in you as you defy what is surely fate. _Take that!_ you say. Your fate is shaped by your hand. 

Hehe. 

Glance left. 

You catch the eye of a tall, slender woman, her expression bright with laughter. Once she catches you looking, she turns to face you fully. Her skirt gets caught in her current, wrapping around her legs almost in slow motion. She lifts her arm high and waves at you with her whole body. As she sways, her short hair bobs in time with her movements. 

Everything about her reminds you of watching someone underwater. She's simultaneously disjointed and slow but with a calm grace and ease which belie a powerful strength. 

There's a weight that lifts off of your chest. Is this what you came here for? She wipes some imaginary sweat off her brow before throwing an invisible lasso, planting her feet firmly into the ground, and tightly grasping the imaginary slack before she _pulls_. 

Go along with it. 

Resist the temptation to clown around. 

You know how this game goes: charming clown girl pulls you into her game, smiles her pretty smile, then guts you for sport. That's a hard no from you, sis. 

She puffs out her cheeks, then she deflates, pouting at you. She plants her feet into the ground more firmly this time, then she really leans back and pulls with her whole body. 

Something tugs around your torso. For a moment, you think she really did throw a lasso at you. She mimes pulling again, and you stumble forward. 

Before you know it, she's dragged you into her personal space. 

She places a soft hand on your shoulder before she presents you to her audience, throwing her other arm wide in a "well would you look at this!" gesture. Soft applause fills your ears and her smile shines impossibly brighter. Her teeth are so sharp and shiny, like opal. You're momentarily mesmerized. 

Ask what’s going on. 

The crowd slowly moves on as she mimes packing things into an imaginary suitcase. It's a very professional dismissal; clear cut but not unfriendly. You're impressed. 

You ask her why she chose you for her act. 

She shrugs, closing her eyes as she slams her suitcase shut. Then, she opens her left eye, peering at you, before she brings her finger up to her mouth as if to say "it's a secret.” 

Tell her she seems very committed to her act. 

Tell her her act sucked. 

You feel a fit of real and valid anger at being forced into her act. You really lay into her, letting her know exactly how you feel.

In truth, you simply don't feel afraid of her. She shrivels as you yell at her, crossing her arms behind her back and opening her mouth in shock.

Then she sniffles. Your tirade comes to a swift end when she starts crying. 

You'll give her this: she's a very good actor. 

The heat of the glares passing clowns give you is almost tangible as they pass you by. Mimika is so, so pitiful with her tear-streaked face. So pitiful that you think maybe she's genuine. 

You feel like a real asshole.

Apologize.

You reach out to her and, when she doesn't pull back, you grasp her shoulder.

She gives out a truly pitiful sniff as she looks over to you.

Her face paint is ruined. You feel terrible.

You explain your mistake to her: how you were feeling at the time, and how you're sorry you assumed that she was pulling you into her for malevolent reasons. Almost as if you're old friends, she leans into your touch before looking up at her lashes at you.

It's such a smooth and easy gesture that you can see the sweeps of practice behind it. You get the feeling that she's done this before.

Then she smiles sadly. It's such a beautiful sight; you want to make her smile more.

Her eyes are so purple...

Her eyes are so purple, like amethyst catching the sunlight. She's a jewel. She's so, so lovely with her bobbed hair and her shiny teeth and her frilly clothes.

You don't even know her name. 

Ask her name.

She shakes her head at you with a coy smile, closing her eyes before crossing her fingers in front of her mouth.

Tell her she seems very committed to her act.

Her expression brightens. You can feel a reckless, manic giggle welling up inside you. You fight to shove it down.

As if she can read your mind, she giggles first. Her laugh is melodic and easy. She snorts a little, and you start to laugh with her.

She grabs you by the hand. Her fingers are cold as all fuck. 

Warm her hands with yours. 

You bring your other hand up to enfold the both of hers.

She looks down at your hands with a sour kind of smile, a smile all the more cold in juxtaposition to the warmth of your hands still holding hers. Then she looks up at you. Her eyes have hunger in them. Hatred.

You try to pull back, but you can't. Every cell in your body is magnetized towards her. You feel a desperate need to make her feel better.

While you struggle with your crisis, she pulls your hands up to her mouth. Then, she kisses you softly on the meat of your thumb.

A hysterical laugh bubbles out of you. What the fuck. You are so scared. She is so mesmerizing standing before you.

She takes your right hand off of hers and places it around her jaw. Instinctively, you pinch her masseter muscles, forcing her jaw open.

Her breath is sweet and floral against your face, filling your sinuses fit to bursting. Her teeth are just as perfect and sharp as they were before. You find yourself leaning into her, against every instinct. You smell her breath. You watch her teeth.

Something wiggles grotesquely in her mouth. Her tongue. She has no tongue.

She lets out what might have been a sardonic giggle, had your hand not been holding her mouth open. As it were, she 'haah's disgustingly into your face.

Your hand releases her jaw, and she leans into you. She kisses you on the cheek, whispering something that might have been a word into your ear. "Please," maybe, or "peaks."

Your body slackens as she kisses you behind the jaw. Then she bites, hard, into the column your throat.

The pain is exquisite. If you were feeling poetic, you might even say there was a beauty to it. There's a sudden inner peace that fills you.

 _Peace._ That's the word she was whispering to you. Peace.

She exhales hard against your back. Your own blood flows out of her nose and sprays disgustingly onto your spine. She sucks the blood from you gently as if to apologize. Your shirt is soaked with your own blood, rapidly cooling in the autumn air.

You never even learned her name. You clutch ever tighter to her. She rips a chunk of flesh out of your neck, her eyes rolled back and smile wide in pleasure. It's so slow as to be intimate, somehow. Sensual. She wipes away some strands of your hair, removing them from her teeth. She smiles down at you. You're fading fast. Death is like a dream.

You wonder how her clothes stay so clean when her hands are so stained.

BAD END

Restart?

This is your chance! With every ounce of showmanship you possess, you pretend that she's pulling you forward with great force. Your footfalls skitter against the ground as you pretend to pull back.

It's exhausting work.

Inch by inch, she reels you in. You give her everything you've got, stumbling forward, taking her cues. 

Let her catch you.

You stumble forward, feigning clumsiness, right into her personal space.

She takes her cue beautifully, throwing her hands up to clutch her hair in mock panic before scrambling forward to catch you. She bounces in her knees a bit to make you look heavy, straining to lift you. Then, abruptly, she places you on her hip, wiping the sweat off her brow as if she's too exerted to stay in character before she continues the act. 

Clowns everywhere are laughing. Hell, you're laughing too. 

Okay everyone, show’s over! 

You find your feet beneath you. Your new friend hangs her arm loose and friendly around your shoulder as she waves and kisses to the crowd. It looks like her show is over for now.

Spirits lifted from the adrenaline of a good performance, you almost don't want to say goodbye to your new partner in crime and, dare you say, potential new friend.

You turn to face her and-

Wow!

She sure is standing a lot closer than you thought she would be.

She pulls back as you let out a startled exhale, pressing her palms together in front of her chest and squinting her eyes at you as if to say "whoops, sorry!"

Thank her for the show. 

You thank her for the show, expressing how impressed you are at her professionalism.

She waves her hand in the air, scrunching up her whole face as she smiles a flattered sort of smile. There's something so genuine about her, almost childlike. Trust doesn't come easy to you these days, but something deep and wise in you knows that you can trust her right now.

You watch her sign something at you: her flat hand circles in front of her chest, almost as if she's overwhelmed, or maybe as if she's inviting forward. Confused...

...you step forward.

You step forward into her personal space.

She twists her face dubiously at you and leans back, surprised, before she snorts out laughter. You look down, embarrassed, before she snaps to catch your attention.

With her pointer finger, she spells something in the air. J-O-Y.

She lets her face relax, out of the exaggerated expressions that most clownish performers wear and into something more relaxed. Then she grabs you by the shoulder and walks with you through clown town.

_shrug_ Guess you’ll comply!

She leads you through the center of town, pointing things out seemingly at random. You get the sense she likes to watch almost as much as she likes to be watched; she honest to god jumps up and down after seeing a flock of pigeons. As they startle, flying all around her, she watches them with such a naked look of wonder that you take a second look. 

To you, though, they're just pigeons. 

Eventually, the stale scent of greasy food blends with a subtle metallic and salty smell. You would recognize it anywhere: she's taken you near the shore. 

Concrete gives way to wooden planks, and before you know it, you've found yourself on the boardwalk. Something about clown town reminds you of a highschool play; every new scene seems to blend into the last, like a piece of hastily painted backdrop. 

Admire the scenery.

Admire your new friend.

As covertly as you can, you sneak a glance at your new friend. 

She's staring straight ahead; the many lights of the pier make themselves cozy against the stark white canvas of her painted face. It gives her the illusion of being many people at once. 

She tucks her hair behind her ear, jingling the pair of bells tied to her left horn before she turns to look at you. 

She winks. 

Admire the scenery.

Straight ahead is a cluster of buildings, all united by a painted canvas tent over top. From within, multicolored lights flash and tinny music plays. It's the sort of music that usually accompanies shitty rigged boardwalk games with their shitty boardwalk plushies.

You're about to be a plushy casanova in this bitch.

You tell your new friend that you are just the best at rigged games. Never has a glued down bottle nor a nailed down figurine withstood the force of your love for games. She gives you another of her dubious looks; you flex your arm and roll your shoulders to really drive it home.

Her laugh is enough to encourage you to make a real ass of yourself.

Check out the elephant plush by the skee-ball stall.  


WAIT there's a behemoth squid plush by the fill up balloons with a water gun game!  


Rare! Spotted! A moth plush by the test your strength game!  


Look at that goofy seal plushie by the ring toss game.  


You almost can't keep up with how many- HOLD UP fattest pigeon plush by the frog launch game.

GOD that guy looks smug as hell. Lucky for your friend here, your skee balling arm is active and reporting for duty.

There aren't any tickets, or tokens or... really anything that you're familiar with. Your friend is bouncing on the balls of her feet beside you, taut with what might either be nervous energy or excitement. 

After a tense moment of watching her bounce, she brings her hand up to a pane of multicolored glass, all cut in hexagons. Colors flash as it reads her... handprint? Blood caste? Either way, six balls load up beneath the skee ball table.

It's show time.

Do a dramatic cool dude walk up to the skee ball machine.

Heelllll yeeaaahhhh. She's totally impressed; nobody has ever sauntered up to throw things up a table quite like this before.

You reach into the... skee ball holding bay? And you grab your first ball.

Ball? In your hand. Smug elephant plush? In your head. Friendship? In your heart.

But as you try to remove the ball from its shitty prison, you realize you've made a fatal error. Trolls across the planet have shown you -- numerous times, even! -- that strength is measured with a much different scale here.

This skee ball has to weigh an impossible 40 pounds. That's 18 kilos! Roughly 3 stone! Something like that.

If your friend has noticed your struggling, she is kindly pretending that you're building suspense. She eggs you on with a smile and nod, and an idea strikes you.

With a grunt, you pretend to be acting. Pretending to pretend is hard work! You wonder how she does this for a living.

But, in a stroke of luck, she eats that shit up. She hides a smile behind her hand before waving her hand towards you in a "go ahead" motion.

Throw the ball...?

You pull back. With a grunt of effort, you put all of your weight into your back foot. And you roll the ball with everything you've got.

It rolls, pitifully, about halfway up the table before rolling down. If a skee ball could look defeated it would look like this.

Your friend is laughing uproariously at the show. Perhaps this can be salvaged! You try again...

...to be met with the same result. Perhaps because your friend doesn't like telling the same joke twice, she pushes you aside before grabbing her own skee ball.

She brings it up to her chest effortlessly. Jealousy fills your whole torso, but you push it down before it can reach your face.

She moves like she's bowling; it looks hilarious. What a mind your new friend has!

Huh, you wonder what her name is.

Before you can dwell on that thought, she lets the ball loose.

It hurdles straight through the backboard. It's so off-center that you're sure she didn't even bother to aim for one of the holes.

She does this twice more with two more inappropriate throws. Pitching a baseball. Throwing a basketball. Then she rolls it underhand like how you're supposed to.

The machine is a wreck, full of holes and leaking smoke like a. Well, like a broken machine. 

She turns towards you and jumps up and down with glee. Then she just reaches up and takes Smug Elephant.

...Huh.

WAIT there's a behemoth squid plush by the fill up balloons with a water gun game!  


Rare! Spotted! A moth plush by the test your strength game!  


Look at that goofy seal plushy by the ring toss game.  


You almost can't keep up with how many- HOLD UP fattest pigeon plush by the frog launch game.

You're starting to get hungry...

Haha, his face is stitched a little off center. It's charming in its imperfection.

You look over to your buddy and she's doing her best impression of his doofy misaligned face.

You need that seal. 

Toss some rings?

Your friend presses her palm to the glass activation pane and is met with nothing. Her face falls. When she looks at you, she looks so disappointed that you feel it like a blow to the chest.

Fuck it.

You gank that seal without hesitation. Your friend is titillated by your brash display of stealing as blatantly as possible. Her breathless giggles are exciting in the dark cover of this stall like you're doing something even more fun than stealing a seal plush after not playing a game.

You get the feeling that this was supposed to go a little differently, but someone didn't feel like figuring out how to make a ring toss game fun and so abandoned it altogether.

Weird.

Check out the elephant plush by the skee-ball stall.  


WAIT there's a behemoth squid plush by the fill up balloons with a water gun game!  


Rare! Spotted! A moth plush by the test your strength game!  


You almost can't keep up with how many- HOLD UP fattest pigeon plush by the frog launch game.

You're starting to get hungry...

Above a crowd of clowns, you notice the largest plush you've ever seen in your life. Roughly 10 feet long from the top of its head to the bottom of its arms, this squid plushy swims above the stalls as its arms catch the wind. It seems to beckon to you.

Your bud next to you seems just as enthralled as you are. Her eyes are wide and shiny, her posture is noticeably tense. You feel a rush of pride as you recognize the emotion: excitement. 

The two of you make your way through the crowd. Well, your friend makes her way through the crowd and you follow in her wake. 

When you reach the stall that boasts Sir Squid, you recognize yet another staple of shitty carnival games. The name has since been lost, perhaps it never had a name. Nevertheless, shooting water into a clown's mouth to fill up your intended balloon is a game as old as time.

Your friend points to the west side of the stall; it appears that you and she can work together against another team of two.

2v2 us, clowns.

Your friend gets very serious all of the sudden. She flexes and stretches her hands. She flexes and stretches her legs. 

God, if legs are somehow involved in the Alternian version of this game, you've got it in the bag.

You join her in stretching. In a fit of inspiration, you jeer playfully at your opponents, sticking your tongue out at them. Your friend deflates a little next to you, but she seems to catch herself in time to give your opponents the universal "I'm watching you" sign.

Your opponents are very good sports about it. You can't help but wonder if it's the spirit of clown town, or if perhaps your friend is very well known and very well-liked here. Either way, they explain the instructions to you as quickly as they can before they move to their station.

It turns out that the Alternian version of this game does involve your legs. The harder you pump your legs on a set of pedals, the more water pressure you provide to the water gun. 

Hell. Yes.

Your girl moves to sit on the pedals, but you stop her with a hand on her shoulder. With a grave seriousness, she relinquishes her seat to you before grabbing the water gun with an equal measure of grit.

The game is over before it even begins.

Sir Squid is yours for the squishing. You notice that your friend seems especially enamored with this plush, so you hand him over to her. She lets out a delighted "Oh!" before she hugs him close to her chest, tucking his arms between them to keep them off the ground. She smiles so hard; she looks so cute that you want to cry with it.

It's the first time you've heard her make a sound. You commit it to memory as she moves the both of you forward, towards whatever your next adventure might be.

Check out the elephant plush by the skee-ball stall.  


Rare! Spotted! A moth plush by the test your strength game!  


Look at that goofy seal plushy by the ring toss game.  


You almost can't keep up with how many- HOLD UP fattest pigeon plush by the frog launch game.

You're starting to get hungry...

Finally, something straight-forward. The test your strength game is lovingly decorated with multiple species of moths. Some have iridescent scales that catch the lights of the carnival, sparkling enticingly, but one in particular catches your eye: a fluffy poodle moth, with her chubby wings and kind face.

You aren't the only one with your eye on those little dudes; your buddy keeps covertly leaning her body that way. She seems content to let you lead for now, but you get the sense that she deserves a moth tonight.

Test the strength of your budding friendship.

You are not very strong, but seeing your friend's face light up as you lead her to the test your strength station is enough to give you the confidence to try.

The woman tending the game gives you an amused look as your bud presses her palm to what you clearly recognize as an activation screen. Then, she passes a mallet to you.

The mallet is so heavy that you just know you're headed towards some shenanigans. Ass first. Call it instinct, call it experience: where ever that feeling comes from, you know it to be true.

Still, you pick up the mallet with the strength of your whole body. The weight of it pulls you back, and you stumble on your feet.

At least your buddy is amused. Hell, even the game minder is wearing a smirk. You wonder if they think you're putting on an act. 

Honestly, that's probably the best-case scenario here.

You bring the mallet over your shoulder and slam it down. 

Unfortunately, you completely miss the launch pad. The mallet comes down hard on one of the planks of the boardwalk, and you get sent flying.

Damn, that was a lot more force than you were expecting to be capable of.

In a stroke of impossible luck, you land ass first on the launch pad.

_Called it._

The indicator lifts about a foot, maybe a third of a meter at most, off the ground. The bell at the top is tragically out of its reach.

The clowns are laughing. You try not to blush, but blushing is all you can do.

Your friend bounces towards you regardless of your failure, holding her hands behind her back. Then, she brings the fingers of her left hand up to the bells tied to her horn and jingles them before she presents you with the poodle moth plush. It's not the victory gong of the bell up top, but the way your heart flutters tells you it's just as good.

After thanking her, she helps you to your feet. Her hands are so cold in your own, but her skin is so soft. It's like when you flip your pillow over to the cold side: something about _whatever_ it is you two have between you is easy and comfortable.

You scrutinize her, wondering if she's having as much fun as you are. Her smile is genuine, she's glowing from the laughter that never seems to leave her. Her neck and behind her ears are slightly tinted purple.

Well, at least you aren't the only one blushing.

Check out the elephant plush by the skee-ball stall.  


WAIT there's a behemoth squid plush by the fill up balloons with a water gun game!  


Look at that goofy seal plushy by the ring toss game.  


You almost can't keep up with how many- HOLD UP fattest pigeon plush by the frog launch game.

You're starting to get hungry...

Ah, the staple of rigged carnival games. Frog launch is infuriating to play and impossible to win. You can't wait to see how trolls have made it even stupider.

But Fattest Pigeon has a mischievous glint to her eyes. They beckon you forward, tempting you with the thrill of a secret you're about to be let in on.

Launch some frogs.

It's exactly the same set up as earth, just a little ritzier: a tub of water holds some lily pads. On the table surrounding the water tub are a bunch of multicolored stone frogs. Judging by the shine and sparkle, you suspect these frogs are made from gemstone instead of the usual plastic.

Your... friend... Fuck, you keep forgetting to ask her name. Not a lot of dialogue happening due to the whole mime shtick. You bet her name is something really cliche, like Mime-something. Or Marcell.

You know, like Marcel Marceau? Yeah, you're really on the up-and-up with harlequin history these days.

Anyway, she holds her hand up to a screen before the game activates. The lily pads start to drift as the water forms a current. You know that you have to launch the frogs onto the lily pads from some kind of springboard almost by instinct.

Your friend joins you in this game! The frogs are heavier than what you're used to, but, all in all, this game is just as fun as it is back on earth.

Which is to say: not fun at all. Fuck frog launch. You land your tiny rose quartz frog on one of the outer lily pads to let some steam out.

Your friend's got terrible aim, stuck in a cycle of launching the stones directly into the water and trying to calibrate her springboard. You are taking this very seriously. You say again: _fuck_ frog launch.

That being said, you have completely lost yourself in the euphoria of kicking someone's ass at a carnival game. And the sound of the gemstone frogs plopping in the water is hilarious. Someone programmed a 'FATALITY' sound file to play over their little croaks every time you miss the lily pads. Laughter makes her a much worse shot and you a much more fun opponent. She has to stop to wipe her tears, and you decide that now is the time to destroy her.

You launch your frogs with a fury never before seen on Alternia. Frogs are playing their two-toned death songs as you hit two lily pads, then three.

You kick your friend's ass 7-to-1.

Check out the elephant plush by the skee-ball stall.  


WAIT there's a behemoth squid plush by the fill up balloons with a water gun game!  


Rare! Spotted! A moth plush by the test your strength game!  


Look at that goofy seal plushy by the ring toss game.  


You're starting to get hungry...

There's no denying it: there is no pleasure more guilty nor more satisfying than greasy pier food. Your companion grabs you by the wrist and leads you forward.

It's not often you feel the need to fill the silence. With her, though, it feels good to just talk aloud. She always has the right expression to make at you. She always knows when to touch you consolingly on the shoulder, or when to jostle you to get you to laugh. Though she can't (won't?) talk to you, you can feel that she's listening as attentively as any of your friends.

The two of you feast on hot dogs (she indicates that these are her favorite before slathering them in hot sauce), funnel cake (she blows some powdered sugar off the top and at you; your face is nearly as white as hers), and fried oysters.

You tell her all about some of the more iconic fried foods from earth. She makes a disgusted face at the mention of fried butter, but fried oreos seems to intrigue her: she brings her hand up to her mouth as she considers it.

But there are no fried oreos here. At least, not that you can find. Instead, she brings you in front of a clown with a cotton candy machine. This clown is a true artist: she makes you cotton candy shaped like a cat loaf, and your friend gets one shaped like a handful of balloons.

'Your friend...' God, you can't believe you've spent nearly six thousand words with her, more or less, and you don't even know her name. 

Ask for her name.

As the two of you walk mindlessly around the pier, you gather your courage to ask for her name. 

She takes you to a very tacky store selling shitty hats and seashell jewelry. She dons a pair of sunglasses, a straw hat, and a pair of huge, conch shell earrings before turning to look at you. The shopkeep glowers at her from behind and she manages to mimic his expression perfectly even though she's not looking at him.

Then she takes her hat off, laughing, before placing the straw hat on your head. It's even itchier and more uncomfortable than it looks. You bestow upon her your "jester in the streets and bester in the sheets" cap. She noticeably shrinks under the hat as if it's taking a physical toll to wear, making a disgruntled face before she huffs out an amused sigh. 

After returning all of the knick-knacks to their proper place, you feel that the time is right.

Cool as a cat, you stop her with a casual "oh, by the way..." She startles a bit before she realizes that yes, she really _hasn't_ introduced herself yet.

She grabs you by the wrist. She softens her gaze. Your heart is pounding. With her free hand, she boops you on the nose before writing something on your palm with her index finger. You spell it out loud as she spells it silently: M-I-M-I-K-A.

 _Mimika?_ She nods. Then she signs something before pointing at you.

Your heart skips a beat. Is that what she's taken to calling you in ASL?

She smiles, shaking her head. Grabbing your shoulder, she points behind you.

Another fried food stall...? She shakes her head again and _really_ points.

Ah, they have candy and cookies too.

She turns toward you, leaning in conspiratorially. Could it be...? 

Oh hell yes we're frying up some oreos.

And, apparently, not just oreos. Mimika has the stall keeper fry up nearly anything that catches her eye. Gummy bears? Go for it. Candy canes? Uh, sure why not. A chunk of licorice? Your funeral, sis.

Armed with a plate full of a heart attack waiting to happen, Mimika drags you towards a bench that faces the shore. You can see in the distance a huge ferris wheel, resplendent in more colors than you thought you could perceive. The shore gives off just enough static noise to give you the sense of this whole place fraying at the seams. It's simultaneously a nostalgic and exciting sound, promising the end in every direction.

It always leads to this, doesn't it?

Sit down next to Mimika.

You sit down without any fanfare. She smooths her skirt underneath her thighs to give you more room before she glances over at you.

Her serious face tells you that she's feeling a similar sort of nostalgia over the quiet sounds of the shore. She picks up one of her fried candy canes and snaps off a piece. With every crunch, her face scrunches up in disgust by exponential degrees.

She spits it daintily out into a line of colorful handkerchiefs she pulls out from her blouse. 

You take a fried oreo off of your plate and shove it in her mouth in its place. She hums in delight; after such a long stretch of silence, the sound is as sweet and refreshing as cold water. This is the second noise she's ever made at you. You play it in your head over and over again.

You like long walks on the beach.

You like long rides on the ferris wheel.

Before you can suggest anything, time seems to slow as she brings the fried licorice to her mouth. Oh god, no! 

She takes one bite before she has to get up and pace around. She holds her hand over her mouth, disgusted, before spitting it into a nearby trash can. The 'fwoosh' of the incinerator stirs her hair around her head; she looks like she's looking down into the depths of hell. Her teeth are all stained black. 

When she goes over to a water fountain to rinse her mouth, the fountain sprays confetti all over her as she spits and retches into the drain.

Guess she didn't like that.

Point out the fair grounds before she eats something worse.

She goes still as you tell her that you've never seen a Ferris wheel so big. Her eyes dart towards you, then to the rides, before she shrugs and puts on her smile again.

The fairgrounds are much cleaner than you're used to, though it still smells like stale bodies and greasy food. Some things span universes, you suppose.

Mimika seems a little lost here; you find it hard to believe that she's never done this before. You can't help but wonder what's getting her all shaken up.

Distract her with a good time.

One of the things you're best at is stumbling blindly from one misadventure to the next. Not far from the two of you is a carousel; this seems like an easy ride to deal with. It spins, slow and merry, as it plays its stock carnival music.

Mimika brightens when you grab her by the wrist and point out an appaloosa horse. She traces patterns in the spots on its butt, but she shakes her head sadly before leading you to the double-wide horse-drawn carriage.

You guess she wants to sit with you? Maybe she's getting tired. Something is a little off about your friend, and, though you desperately want to get to the bottom of it, you know better than to dig.

The carousel starts playing its song more intensely, and the ride starts.

It's about as uneventful as the carousels back home, except for the funhouse mirrors that come down and encompass the entire ride. You're effectively trapped catching glimpses of your alternate self; it's incredibly off-putting and a little spooky.

Mimika refuses to look, glancing nervously at you instead and giving you a shaky smile.

Oh, fuck, you hope you aren't about to die a horrible, painful death.

Panic.

A familiar feeling rises in your throat: you are very quickly losing your cool.

Mimika doesn't seem to notice. If anything, your panicking has finally set her at ease. She frames your shoulders with her hands, providing pressure, and exhales. You follow her lead, relaxing your shoulders and sighing along with her.

Satisfied, she leans her head on your shoulder and finally turns to watch the mirrors spin around you. She points out a mirror that makes your faces very wide but your torsos long and slim. Her laughter is distorted as the carousel spins on its track. 

Mimika is everywhere around you.

You want to get off Miss Mimika's wild ride.

With shaky legs, you dismount the carousel.

She's been moody ever since you pulled her towards the fairgrounds. As you step off of the carousel, she looks up to the ferris wheel and goes still again.

Maybe, though, you're thinking about this all wrong. Instead of trying to make her feel better by distracting her, maybe you _should_ try figuring out what's wrong.

You want to... get on Miss Mimika's wild ride?

They call it mood swings for a reason, right? It's not just the carousel that goes up and down.

Hold her romantically by the hand.

Grab her platonically by the wrist.

Gently, you brush your fingers against hers. She looks down, a little spark of anxiety lighting up behind her eyes. 

Ah. If you're holding her hand, she loses her ability to communicate. You didn't consider that.

Before you can kick yourself for not thinking, she meets your eyes and smiles the kindest smile you've seen since you landed on Alternia. You can feel your insides melt into goo; she lights a fire up in you.

Lead her to the Ferris wheel.

The Ferris wheel is much more intimidating up close. Screws and bolts screech for death; this thing is barely holding together.

For all that it looks unsafe, it is impeccably clean. Huh, you wonder what that's about.

You express your concern to Mimika, worrying about how safe this whole thing is. She stops abruptly, looking back at you to read your expression, understand your features.

Then, she turns to face you fully. She grabs your other hand and leads you forward as she steps back. The two of you step onto the Ferris wheel.

Sit back and enjoy it.

You lean back into your seat, pulling in breaths to relax.

Mimika looks at you for a long wile before demurely sitting down across from you. You joke with her, telling her your inevitable death by shoddy engineering has never felt so relaxing.

She snorts, then she sits up straighter. This gets your attention.

Watch her sign.

This is completely baffling to you; you've never been good at charades. She seems to catch your confusion, so she explains: she holds her hand to her heart and rolls her eyes heavenwards

Ah, the joker cards? She nods her head, smiling brightly and pumping her fists excitedly in front of her chest.

Oh, you know all about the joker cards.

Oh, your clown friends have told you all about the joker cards

Her eyes go wide as you flex your clown knowledge. You tell her all of the details of your death that one time: the carousel, the stiff-armed mannequins.

...And Karako's dead body. Suddenly, you wish you hadn't said anything at all. This story is kind of a downer.

But Mimika doesn't seem to mind. She's completely enthralled, leaning forward in such slight increments that you would have thought she was keeping completely still had she not been nearly nose to nose with you.

Haha, wow, she sure does have no concept of personal space. You lean back; she gestures at you. She points at you, then to her eyes, then up towards the heavens.

You nod. Yeah, you've seen it.

She's completely stunned, holding one hand up to her chest and one hand tentatively forward. Her eyes are glazed from shock, her mouth hangs open.

You realize that you've gone completely still, too. The tension between the current moment and the next is palpable; it's like you're in a Ferris wheel car full of oatmeal that's swiftly congealing. Gross.

But Mimika doesn't seem to notice how time is thick around you. She reaches forward, stopping hesitantly millimeters away from your face. Then, she strokes your jaw.

You don't mean to, but you flinch. Her face falls.

But you see something you probably weren't meant to see. A flicker of anger slots itself between her shocked expression and her sad one. Had time not been so still, you might not have caught it.

She pulls away from you, but not before her hand trails from your jaw to your neck and down your arm, grabbing your hand. The Ferris wheel begins its descent. You guess she's going to spell something on your palm again?

She's taking her time studying the lines of it first, though. Maybe she's a palm reader on the side? But, eventually, she does spell something.

 _Ticket._ What? She points to you, with her eyes closed and a sad smile on her face before she taps your palm again. Then she opens her eyes and you realize: she's looking up. You're her ticket to clown heaven.

The Ferris wheel stops. Haha, that's a funny joke Mimika but you left some friends uh, on the stove. Gotta go!

You get up, but she blocks the exit. Her face has gone stern like you're a child who just doesn't know better. And the Ferris wheel ascends again.

She pushes you down onto your seat again. You don't have the energy to resist. She sits next to you. Your hand is still being held by hers.

Then she brings your hand up to her mouth. She kisses the meat of your thumb. And she bites you, sucking your blood into her mouth.

You think of the static noise of the waves papping up against the shore. You bring your hand up to her face without thinking and pap her softly. There's no intent there; it's an idle gesture meant to distract you from the pain.

You feel so tired, suddenly. You realize you didn't even have the energy to scream. Her cheek nuzzles into your pap hand while she strips the flesh from the other.

You fall into death as people fall in love: slowly, tenderly, and inevitably.

BAD END

Restart?

Yeah, you've got an in with the church. Clout. _Clowt,_ if you will. Your clown friends all definitely believe. You've absorbed knowledge about their beliefs without ever thinking about it.

She nods her head at you, then she points at you, tilting her head and shrugging.

It takes you by surprise, but you really hadn't thought much about what happens after death even since landing on Alternia. Facing death every day seems to take some of the fun out of existential thought.

She nods sagely, crossing her arms. An expectant look your way tells you that you're supposed to keep talking.

You tell her your beliefs: you just want to do what's right, for righteousness's sake. Oof, that's a mouthful. She seems content with that before she writes something on your palm.

A-N-D-M-E-S-S-I-A-H-S?

Well, that's more complicated. This is a delicate situation; she's clearly devout.

You give her a cop-out answer: if her messiahs are as kind as she believes, then your soul will be judged fairly whether or not you believe. You leave off the part where they may not be so kind.

She gets misty-eyed as she mimes wiping away a tear. Yes, it's working.

But, though you've come to accept miming as one of her "good mood" habits, she crosses her arms and looks out the window. That's a textbook posture of someone who's struggling with some internal crisis of faith.

They don’t call you pastor for nothing.

Yeah, you had to pay Chahut an exorbitant fee to even make that joke. But the GHB called your legs sexy once. That has to hold some weight, right?

You move to sit next to her. She holds her plushy close to her chest as she refuses to look at you. You reiterate that you're here if she wants to explain what she's struggling with.

She doesn't explain, instead looking silently out the window. With a sigh, you lean back and make yourself comfortable. 

You have to admit: you're curious about what's bothering her.

She doesn't seem to mind that you glance at her every few minutes. You study the lines of her profile: broad, sloping nose, large expressive eyes. She looks like she needs a friend. And you're not just saying that because you're, well, you.

You bump her ankle with your toes. She kicks at your shins before sending a playful grin out the window. Oh, it's on.

Your war continues; you're both so rambunctious that the car starts to tilt and sway on its axis with your combined momentum. It makes you sea-sick, and you have to hold onto one of the handholds to keep from getting real-sick.

But Mimika just laughs and laughs her silent victory. Fair's fair, you guess.

Mimika regards you fondly for a long moment before finally sighing. She snaps to get your attention and you settle down. With both hands, she mimes a box. Then she holds up three fingers. Guess she's ready to talk about that bad mood. 

Okay, the numbers thing has correlated with joker cards so far. The riddle box?

She nods, then she points to herself before miming something seeping from the box. Her performance is impeccable.

It takes some time for you to figure out her meaning. She's afraid of going to clown hell? She shakes her head. She points to herself, jabbing her finger hard into her sternum. Then she makes a mean face, crossing her arms in an X in front of her.

Ah. She thinks she's a bad person. She rolls her finger in the air, implying that you should keep going. She thinks she's... wicked?

This seems to strike a chord with her. She sniffles before she looks down at her hands in her lap. You watch the tears fall off of her face, leaving the worst kind of constellation on her skirt.

Something very human in you wants to wipe her tears and hug her. So you do, holding her hands in yours to comfort her.

This seems to have the opposite effect on her. She shakes her head violently, letting out a sob before she brings your hand up to her lips. 

Hell yeah, hand kiss time. An unexpected benefit to your new friend's crisis of faith.

But instead of kissing you, she bites you hard on the side of your hand. Fucking _ow_! She makes a mean face at you and your heart stills before you realize she's still communicating with you. This is part of her act.

She writes something in blood around your wrist: G-U-I-L-T. She gesticulates her hands wildly around her head.

You get the gist of it: she loses control of herself, and she feels guilty about it. She quiets down after you say that, nodding solemnly. 

Well, the first step forward is admitting you have a problem. She starts laughing as she continues crying. In truth, you have so many thoughts in your head. Alternia as a system seems designed to mass-produce people like her. Guilt makes people more likely to follow someone else's path.

But she probably knows that. The last thing she needs is you humansplaining all the ways her planet has failed her. Instead, you wrap your arm around her shoulder and point out the sights. She seems to calm down some, reaching up to grab your hand where it rests on her shoulder. She delights in seeing the church all lit up, pressing her face against the window as she points it out to you; its stained glass glows with an otherworldly light. She watches the waves start their retreat into low tide, leaving behind a line of seashells discarded on the beach. One by one, the vendors turn off the lights to their stalls as you reach the apex of the Ferris wheel, and clown town lights up in blacklight. Hundreds of thousands of pictures reveal themselves under their eerie purple glow.

She melts into your side as a smile finds her face.

As the Ferris wheel descends, she wiggles a bit under your arm. Her smile is warm and bright again as she brings her hand opposite your jaw, stroking you fondly before kissing you on the cheek.

And, somehow, you get the feeling that she'll figure out how to be okay on her own. She may be alone in her head, but she's got you by her side.

Without thinking about it, you grab her by the wrist and pull her forward.

You look back to give her an excited smile; hopefully, she hasn't caught on to your plan to sleuth out the cause of her weird mood.

But she doesn't seem to notice that you've grabbed her by the wrist at all. She gestures something at you, slashing her palm through the air, but when she catches your expression, she sighs and smiles and exasperated smile at you.

Well, at least she thinks you're cute enough to get away with it.

Lead her to the Ferris wheel.

The Ferris wheel is much more intimidating up close. Screws and bolts screech for death; this thing is barely holding together.

For all that it looks unsafe, it is impeccably clean. Huh, you wonder what that's about.

You glance at Mimika, worrying about how safe this whole thing is. She glances back, raising a challenging eyebrow to you.

Fuck it, clowns are getting on and off in droves. If the Ferris wheel doesn't scare them, then you're not going to let it scare you either.

Plus, Mimika will be right there with you. Everything feels safer when you have a friend by your side.

Sit back and enjoy it.

You lean back into your seat, pulling in breaths to relax.

Mimika checks out the car before choosing the seat across from you. You joke with her, telling her your inevitable death by shoddy engineering has never felt so relaxing.

She snorts, then she sits up straighter. This gets your attention.

Ask her what’s wrong.

There's a moment of silence between you. She looks out of the window, then back to you.

You tell her you're listening if she wants to talk. She shrugs, brushing you off. 

But she does look back at you shyly. With a sigh, she starts to sign.

She holds up seven fingers, then closes all of them except the first.

This is completely baffling to you; you've never been good at charades. She seems to catch your confusion, so she explains: she holds her hand to her heart and rolls her eyes heavenwards.

Ah, the joker cards? She nods her head smiling brightly before she gives you a thumbs up.

Oh, you know all about the joker cards.

Oh, your clown friends have told you all about the joker cards.

Yeah, you've got an in with the church. Clout. _Clowt,_ if you will. Your clown friends all definitely believe. You've absorbed knowledge about their beliefs without ever thinking about it.

She nods her head at you, then she points at you, tilting her head and shrugging.

It takes you by surprise, but you really hadn't thought much about what happens after death even since landing on Alternia. Facing death every day seems to take some of the fun out of existential thought.

She nods sagely, crossing her arms. An expectant look your way tells you that you're supposed to keep talking.

You tell her your beliefs: you just want to do what's right, for righteousness's sake. Oof, that's a mouthful. She seems content with that before she writes something on your palm.

A-N-D-M-E-S-S-I-A-H-S?

Well, that's more complicated. This is a delicate situation; she's clearly devout.

You give her a cop-out answer: if her messiahs are as kind as she believes, then your soul will be judged fairly whether or not you believe. You leave off the part where they may not be so kind.

She gets misty-eyed as she mimes wiping away a tear. Yes, it's working.

But, though you've come to accept miming as one of her "good mood" habits, she crosses her arms and looks out the window. That's a textbook posture of someone who's struggling with some internal crisis of faith.

They don't call you Pastor for nothing.

Okay, they don't call you pastor at all. But the GHB called your legs sexy once- that has to hold some weight, right?

You move to sit next to her. She holds her plush close to her chest as she looks at you with a sad sort of smile as you explain that you're here if she wants to explain what she's struggling with.

She's surprisingly quick to explain. That was easy. She mimes a box, holding up three fingers. Okay, the numbers thing has correlated with joker cards so far. The riddle box?

She nods, then she points to herself before miming something seeping from the box. Her performance is impeccable.

It takes some time for you to figure out her meaning. She's afraid of going to clown hell? She shakes her head. She points to herself, jabbing her finger hard into her sternum. Then she makes a mean face, crossing her arms in an X in front of her.

Ah. She thinks she's a bad person. She rolls her finger in the air, implying that you should keep going. She thinks she's... wicked?

This seems to strike a chord with her. She sniffles before she looks down at her hands in her lap. You watch the tears fall off of her face, leaving the worst kind of constellation on her skirt.

Something very human in you wants to wipe her tears and hug her. So you do, holding her hands in yours to comfort her.

This seems to have the opposite effect on her. She shakes her head violently, letting out a sob before she brings your hand up to her mouth. 

She bites you hard on the side of your hand. Fucking ow! She makes a mean face at you and your heart stills before you realize she's still communicating with you. This is part of her act.

She writes something in blood up your arm: G-U-I-L-T. She gesticulates her hands wildly around her head.

You get the gist of it: she loses control of herself, and she feels guilt about it. She quiets down after you say that, nodding solemnly. 

Well, the first step forward is admitting you have a problem. She starts laughing as she continues crying. In truth, you have so many thoughts in your head. Alternia as a system seems designed to mass-produce people like her. Guilt makes people more likely to follow a moral path.

But she probably knows that. The last thing she needs is you humansplaining all the ways her planet has failed her. Instead, you wrap your arm around her shoulder and point out the sights. She seems to calm down some; you notice she practices some breathing exercises to calm down. 

She delights in seeing the church all lit up, pressing her face against the window as she points it out to you; its stained glass glows with an otherworldly light. She watches the waves start their retreat into low tide, leaving behind a line of seashells discarded on the beach. One by one, the vendors turn off the lights to their stalls as you reach the apex of the Ferris wheel, and clown town lights up in blacklight. Hundreds of thousands of pictures reveal themselves under the eerie purple glow.

As the Ferris wheel descends, she wiggles a bit under your arm. She leans further into your embrace, wiggling her shoulders to get comfy. 

She's asleep before you even start your descent.

And, somehow, you get the feeling that she'll be alright. She may be alone in her head, but she's got you by her side.

Fuck it, you're already feeling serene. Let's keep the mood going.

Mimika stills beside you, her hands folded in her lap. Something strikes you: she's quiet. It's an unusual thought; she doesn't speak. But you suppose she jumps around and jingles her bells and slaps you on the back. In its absence, you find a quiet sort of...

Peace?

You wonder if she ever takes the mask off. Hell, you wonder if she's even wearing a mask in the first place. Maybe she really is just this naive girl with a big smile and an overflowing heart. Maybe she's just a girl who likes the beach.

You’ll lead. Romantically.

You’ll follow. Platonically.

Soft fingers find yours as you offer your hand to her. She stands like she has all the time in the world, fixing her skirt and stretching her legs in front of her. She groans a happy noise in her throat as relief follows in the wake of her stretch.

Take your shoes off.

You pull your shoes off; Mimika, predictably, takes a little longer to remove her rocking horse shoes. Lolita fashion- you could scoff at the ritual intricacy of it if she didn't pull it off so well. 

All of the straps and buckles make your head spin, but she's a pro. Three minutes later she has them draped over her shoulder before she twists her mouth and looks down. You look down too.

She wiggles her toes at you through her red stockings. Ah, that might be a problem, considering the sand. She twirls her finger in the air and you turn around.

As she walks past you, her legs bare, the wooden bottoms of her shoes clack together. She brushes your shoulder, passes you by, then glances back at you with a flirtatious eyebrow raised.

You rush forward to join her.

The two of you walk onto the sand together. Huge wooden spikes stand forlornly out in the water, stretching as far as you can see in either direction. You get the sense that this stretch of beach is painfully, violently clowns only.

Mimika seems invigorated by the fresh air, though. The sea breeze tousles her hair and she closes her eyes briefly with her exhale. You kick sand at her in an attempt to monopolize her attention and she laughs, racing forward.

The chase leads you to an area of the beach where the sand is much denser. Mimika shrieks as her foot gets caught on a left-behind sandcastle, but, amazingly, she makes a quick recovery. Her cartwheel is so impeccable that you might have thought it was planned.

She capers and cavorts around some more; sand gets fucking everywhere.

Tell her she seems happy.

She beams at you before holding her arms open. Is she asking for a hug?

But she spins around instead, gesturing at everything. Her arms encompass the beach and the sea and the distant Ferris wheel. Then she flutters her hand over her heart, smiling impossibly wider.

She's well and truly in her element. She settles down, placing one hand on her hip and wiping away sweat from her brow before you both continue to walk up the shore. You wonder if she ever drops the act. 

She leads you closer to the water, invading your personal space as she leans her shoulder against yours. Then you stand there with her, under the moons and watching the water. The waves wash over your feet then leave you behind. You look out to the bloody spikes in the water with a shiver.

To tell the truth, you feel...

...a little envious of her.

She tilts her head at you, but you have to look away.

God, why did you say that? You just met this woman, she doesn't need to know.

But Mimika grabs your hand and contorts so that her face is in front of yours. She wiggles her eyebrows at you, and a weight lifts from your chest as you laugh. 

Tell her.

It takes some time for you to find the words, but once they come to you it's all you can do to spit them out like acid against your tongue.

Because, unlike her, you don't have a place here. You are never really in your element, are you?

But she shakes her head, silently disagreeing with you. She removes her hand from yours to draw a smile on her mouth. Then she boops you on the nose before painting a smile on yours.

Wow, who put all these tears in your eyes? If she notices your sappy bullshit, she seems content to ignore it for now. A stray piece of driftwood bumps at her leg, and she picks it up, examining it's pointed end. Then without fanfare, she turns around and starts drawing in the sand.

First, she draws a portrait of you, your expression serious. You snort; it's a pretty good likeness. The waves come up and wash her drawing away.

With her now clean slate, she draws a portrait of herself with you standing next to her. You both look happy. The waves wash this image away right as she puts her stick into the sand to draw something above you. She shrugs before she chucks the driftwood back into the water.

She scans the horizon, then she grabs you by the shoulder to spin you around. With your back to her chest, she points to something: clown church, resplendent as candlelight filters through its stained glass.

When you look back to her, her expression is neutral. Though she's not smiling, her features are relaxed and her arms sway peacefully by her side. It's enough for you.

Her hands come alive.

She points over your shoulder to the church before she turns her head away with a dismissive expression, brushing it away with her hand. Then she gestures to herself. She points to you, then to some members of an audience that aren't here. Her face melts into a sappy smile as she lays her hand over her heart, loosening her posture and swaying in her knees.

You... think you get it? This is a pretty esoteric act she's performing for you. You ask her if anyone ever does that for her and her gaze softens. She holds her hand over her heart pointing up as her eyes roll back in her head.

This strikes you as very sad. She must be very lonely. But she doesn't shrink under your gaze. Instead, her posture is proud. An idea comes to you, forming slowly and shyly in your head.

Give her your name.

You grab her hand from where she's holding it loosely at her side. She turns her hand over, palm side up, flexing her fingers nervously.

The first brush of your finger startles her; she flinches at the contact. But, slowly, you're able to spell your name against her skin. She mouths it at you, her breath escaping her but otherwise silent.

You nod and she averts her gaze. Then she turns your hand over, kissing you sweetly on the palm before she closes your fingers around it.

She turns to walk on the beach, whether it's to leave you behind or because she expects you to follow, you aren't sure.

But, still, you rush to catch up with her. Because she's your friend. Because she kissed you.

Because you want to see how far you can follow her before you have to stop.

Soft fingers find yours as she grabs your hand. She stands like she has all the time in the world, fixing her skirt and stretching her legs in front of her. You stretch, too, before she's pulling you along to the shore.

Take your shoes off.

You pull your shoes off; Mimika, predictably, takes a little longer to remove her rocking horse shoes. Lolita fashion- you could scoff at the ritual intricacy of it if she didn't pull it off so well. 

All of the straps and buckles make your head spin, but she's a pro. Minutes later, she has them draped over her shoulder before she twists her mouth and looks down. You look down too.

She wiggles her toes at you through her red stockings. Ah, that might be a problem with the sand. She shrugs her shoulders and then keeps walking.

You shiver as you imagine the feeling of sand and wet stockings against your skin. Eugh, disgusting.

Join her.

She beams at you before holding her arms open. Is she asking for a hug?

But she spins around instead, gesturing at everything. Her arms encompass the beach and the sea and the distant Ferris wheel. Then she flutters her hand over her heart, smiling impossibly wider.

She's well and truly in her element. She settles down, placing one hand on her hip and wiping away sweat from her brow before you both continue to walk up the shore. You wonder if she ever drops the act. 

She leads you closer to the water, invading your personal space as she leans her shoulder against yours. Then you stand there with her, under the moons and watching the water. The waves wash over your feet then leave you behind. You look out to the bloody spikes in the water with a shiver.

To tell the truth, you feel...

...envious of her.

She tilts her head at you, but you have to look away.

God, why did you say that? You just met this woman, she doesn't need to know.

It’s better to keep it to yourself.

Mimika tries everything to get you to talk to her, but it's too difficult to find the words.

You want to relax for now. Sometimes it's better to not think about it. 

She shrugs, then leads you to the beach grass. Grasping a long blade of grass, she studies you intensely, bringing a thoughtful hand up to her chin.

You sit down and pose for her to give her something to work with. She's quick to get to work, dragging the beach grass through the sand while using her foot to erase her mistakes.

In the end, she presents you with a very good caricature. Her style is cutesy, and it highlights how serious the expression drawn on your face is. She points at the sand, then she points at you, mimicking the expression.

Hey, you do _not_ look like that! You get to your feet, but she's quick to catch on. Her footfalls against the sand are light and natural where yours are heavy and clumsy. She definitely has the home-field advantage.

But you chase her up the beach, just because it's something to do.

You wonder how far you can follow her before you have to stop.


End file.
